Classic Poem

Per. Be patient.
Aty. Yes, I am patient,
And suffer all, [till] all heavens ills are spent.
Per. You give your selfe to griefe.
Aty. Sencelesse and mad.
Who in much griefe, is not extremely sad?
Per. Alas sir, she was mortall, and must die.
Aty. True, true, and could the fates no time espie
But this? to me she never liv'd till now,
And now Perindus ? now! oh — —
Per. She was my sister!
Aty. Alas, thy sister!
She was my life, my soule, she was my love,
She was — words know not what she was to me:
She was — thou most accursed word of was.
Per. Be comforted.
Tha. Perindus , the very name of comfort, is most comfortlesse
Comfort, joy, hope, liv'd in her cheerfull smiling,
And now must die, or live in far exiling.
Comfort, joy, hope, for ever I deny you,
And would not name you now but to defie you.
Per. Sir, with more patience you have often borne
Far greater evils.
Tha. Perindus , doe not say so,
If thou yet love me, prethee doe not say so:
Was ever ill as this? hels breviary,
All torment in this narrow space is layd,
The worst of [i]ll[s], in these two words are sayd:
Olinda dead? dead! whither doest thou lead mee?
Why, I can goe alone, alone can finde
The way I seeke, I see it best when blinde.
I prethee leave me.
Per. Thalander , I'le not leave thee,
Should heaven with thunder strike these arms that claspe thee,
My dying hands should but more firmely graspe thee.
Tha. Thou violat'st thy love in thy mistaking,
And cleane forsak'st thy friend, in not forsaking.
Olinda : I cannot come, they heere enchaine me.
But neyther can, nor shall they here detaine me.
I'th' meane time, all the honour I can give thee,
Is but a grave, that sacred rocke, the place
Of my conception, and my buriall:
Since Hymen will not, death shall make thee mine,
If not my marriage, my death-bed shall be thine.

Farewell yee mountaines, and thou burning Ætna ,
If yet I doe not beare thee in my brest,
And am my selfe, a living walking Ætna ,
The Nymphs that on you dwell, are too [too] coy,
Too coy and proud, more fierce then robbed tygre[s]
More deafe then seas, and more inflexible
Then a growne O[a]ke, false, flattering, cruell, craftie,
And which most grieves me, when I would embrace them,
Swifter then chased Deere, or dogs that chase them,
You heavens, what have we poore men deserved,
That you should frame a woman, I and make her
So comely and so needefull? why should you cloath them
With [such a pleasing] shape? why should you place
Gold in their haire, allurement in their face?
And that which most may vex us, you impart
Fire [to] their burning eyes, yce to their heart.
Why sweeten you their tongues with sugred charmes
And force men love, and need their greatest harmes?
And most of all, why doe you make them fleete?
Minds as the windes, and wings upon their feete?
Of hundred women that I know, [but one,]
But one [of all] deserves to be a woman.
Whom better heavens have not made more faire,
Then courteous, loving, kinde, and debonaire:
She, when she usd our Mountaines, oft would stay,
And heare me speake, and vow, and sweare, and pray.
Here I have learnt, she haunts along these shores:
Within these rockie clifts i'le hide my selfe,
Till fit occasion, if shee have chang'd her minde,
Then safely may I curse all women-kinde.

Love, without thee, all life is tedious,
Without thee, there's no sweete, no joy, no life;
Thou first gav'st life, and still with new succession,
Continuest what thou gav'st, with sweet inticements,
Taming the strongst rebellion, thy weapons women,
Whom thou so fram'st, that proudest men are glad,
Beaten with them, gently to kisse the rod.
Eyther my weighty passions pull too fast
The wheele of time, or else the houre is past:
But this is she, or I mistake it.

Cos. Women that to one man their passions bind,
As this man alters, so alters still their mind:
Thus ever change they, as those changing faires,
And with their lovers still their love impaires:
But I, when once my lovers change their graces,
Affect the same, though now in other faces:
Thus now my mind is firme, and constant prov'd,
Seeing I ever love, what first I lov'd.
Who blames the speedy heaven, for ever ranging?
Love's fiery, winged, light, and therfore changing.
Ar. True, fairest Nymph, Love is a fire still burning,
And if not slak't, the heart to ashes turning.
Cos. If I could scold, sir you might [well] be chidden,
For comming to my thoughts before y'are bidden.
Ar. Blame me not (Sweet) thy words do fanne thy fires,
And coole the flames which thy faire eye inspires.
Cos. The fire so lately applied, so lately fram'd?
Me thinks, greene wood should not be yet inflam'd.
Ar. Loves flame is not like earths, but heavens fire,
Like lightning, with a flash it lights desire.
Cos. I love not lightning: lightning love that flashes
Before't be all on fire, will be all ashes.
Ar. Gather the fruite then while 'tis yet unblasted.
Cos. I[s']t worth the gathering? is it pleasing tasted?
Ar. Take say of this.
Monster?

Cos. Helpe ho.

Pas. The Doe was almost strooke, 'twas time I came,
For once I'le be a keeper of the game.
I see 'tis Owle-light, Minervaes waggoner,
My old rivall, who this twenty yeeres
Saw nothing but what shin'd through glasse windowes;
What comes he for? I'le stay a while and watch him.
Fred. Most happy age that shall be crownd with love
Of thy love, Cosma : I am not as I seeme,
Farewell old age, I now am young againe
And feele not ages, but a lovers paine,
In love I dare adventure with the best,
Old beaten souldiers are the worthiest:
If all my rivalls heard [mee] I could dare them,
If furies should out-front me, I'de out-stare them.

Con. How well my Mistris Cosmaes clothes do fit me?
What pitty 'twas, I was not made a woman?
I thinke I should have made a pretty Nymph: ha?
I could have beene a[s] pittiful [a] creature,
And yet perhaps, a good unhappy wench.
Cosma by this hath met with her Armillus ,
And sports her selfe: could I meete Fredocaldo ,
I should have sport enough:
What Fredocaldo dead? courage, man.
Fred. I had a fearefull dreame, and scarce am waken.
Con. Come shake off dreames, sleepe is not fit for lovers,
Wee'l to the rocky cave.
Fred. My sunne? my fire?
Con. But Fredocaldo , can you thinke that fire
Can love cold water, the sunne can frost desire?
Fred. I tell thee fairest Cosma , those faire eyes
Bring backe my spring, [and me two enimies.]
Wrong not thy selfe, deare love, so faire a day
Cannot but make mid-winter turne to May.
Cold rhewms I feele not, no frost's lockt in this chest,
Thy love begets a summer in my brest.
Con. Fie Fredocaldo : not in the open aire.

Ar. What furies haunt this grove? is not this Cosma ?
Yes: here again she comes. Most blessed heavens,

I see that yee are more gracious then Hell's spightfull.
Cosma ?
Cos. Armillus .
Ar. My love.
Cos. Sure thou hast done some cruell murder,
And the unexpiate ghost thus haunts thee.
Ar. I never thought it, Cosma :
Rather some power of these woods, too envious
Of my good hap, and jealous of thy favor,
Thus crosses our desires: but if againe
He chance to interpose his horrid face,
I'le rather dye, then leave thy wisht embrace.
All hell and furies haunt us.
Pas. Well overtaken, Nimph, start not, you are sure,
See I am your familiar.
Cos. Beshrew your heart
For thus affrighting me.
Pas. Doe you not blush
To cast your love upon a man, whose love
Is as himselfe an alien? to thine owne
Thou mak'st thee strange, familiar to unknowne.
Cos. Pish, thou art foolish, did I ever binde thee
[Only to me]? why shouldst thou then confine me
To thy sole passion? so oft before
You men have chang'd, that you can change no more:
From bad to worse, from worse, to worst of all:
There lie you now, and can no lower fall:
And as you wisht that we should never rove,
We pray as fast, that you at length could move.
Cease then for shame to raile at womens ranging:
When men begin, women will leave their changing.
Farewell.
Pas. Nay soft, I am [a] dog well bitten,
And will not part so easily with my prey,
I have not tasted venison many a day.
Cos. I cannot well deny thee, 'tis thy right:
Thou well hast purchast it, this be thy [n]ight.

Con. Ha, ha, he:
This old dry stubble, how it crackes i'th' burning!
Alas poore saplesse oake: 'tis time 'twere down,
I stayd till he was ready, all unready,
But when he 'gan to put on his spectacles,
Away slipt I: hee'l doe my mistris little hurt.
Spectacles! hah, ha, he!
Now for my loving Lobster, this is his time;
And if the Cyclops too doe keepe his promise,
O what a rare compound of mirth I'le make,
While the one with sh[a]me, the other with feare I'le take!
The fish comes alreadie to the net.
Can. To all I speake, but I tell no man,
Whether I love Nymph or woman.
Con. Tell not mee, but tell the rocks,
Not words must disciple you but knocks.
I am out of your debt for a rime.
Can. I thinke shee knew my cue, the charme begins to worke already.
Con. I know not how this fishers hooke hath caught mee;
I eve[n] for his rudenesse love him: 'tis the badge of innocencie.
Can. Somewhat rude if you will, but innocent in your face.
Con. O those glearing eyes that dart the beames,
The beames that drown[e] my heart with fierie streames.
Can. Now to Cupids arrowe tree, and she sinks downe-right condoling; Cosma , I have pitty on thee, but it beseemes a man of my confession, to have a negligent care of his good reparation abroad in the world and else-where; I would be loth to be seene in my love-worke, i'le mount the tree and scry the coast.
Con. Stay not, but come againe thy selfe, sweete heart, to receive me.
Can. O ho, here's bundance of people, bundance a lookers on, I dare not love thee before them all, wee'l into the myrtle grove present[ly].
Con. Quickly returne, my love, returne Cancrone my dearest.
Can. Stand forth Cosma , and say on till thou come to that,
I cry, I dye, I lye.
Con. I spie him now approaching.
What though he be all r[u]gge[d] in his limbs?
What though his gesture taste of violence?
We Nymphes, they say, like not such wooers worst.
Rim. Thou speakest of thy Rimbombo , [now I find]
That myrtle groves which love the winding shores,
Deserve to bee to Venus consecrate,
As faster friends to lovers, then the woods
And caves of all the Mounts of Sicily ,
Whose Nymphs do coyly shunne and mocke our troopes.
Con. You come somewhat before your time, Rimbambo ,
And yet in love prevention is no crime:
Lovers may come before, not out of time.
And truly I wish, y'had come a little sooner.
Even now a mongrell crabbed fisher swaine
Laid siege to this unconquer[able] fort.
Rim. What wight of bravest blood by sea and land
Dares share with mee in Cosmaes love?
By Polypheme my sea-bred [s]ire I vow,
The sand on which he treads, is not so small,
As shall this pestell make his pounded bones.
Con. Nay now he treadeth not upon these sands,
But is fled up to the hills, and shortly thence
Will of himselfe come tumbling downe to mee.
Rim. I would he durst: I never yet but once
Did tast of fishers blood, tis jollie sweete:
Come fisher, this way or that way
I am for you at both weapons, club or teeth:
Let's to the grove, see, every mirtle tree
Bids warre to fishers peace, and joy to mee.
Why weepes my Cosma ?
Sweete, feare not that which thou desirest.
Con. Sweete Cyclops , meanst thou to ravish mee?
Rim. O heavens thine owne appointed time and place,
Thine owne sweete Cyclops , and can ravishment? —
Con. Why this [then] know; wee Nymphs that long live chast,
And weare our girdle of virginity — —
But lo, Diana stops my tongue, shee bends
Her deadly bow, I dare not.
Rim. Speake on,
Here's none but trees, and thy trustie true Rimbombo .
Con. By that bright flame which like one only sunne
Gives day [to th'] spheare of thy majesticke face,
I thee adjure, that thou disclose to none
This sacred mysterie.
Rim. Not to my mother: no not in my dreame:
Say on.
Con. Wee neither yeeld, nor take in love delight,
Untill our girdle first be once unplight
By lovers hands, and then about his wast,
By our owne hands the same be tied fast.
Now all is out.
Rim. A pretty piece of work, my hands do their office nimbly;
I have unfettered thee, come put this sweete yoke on mee.
Con. Nay turne about, it must be tied contrarie to other girdles, just behind. Stand neerer to mee, yet neere[r].
Rim. As close as thou wilt, Cosma ; I would your filthy fisher saw us now, 't would make his teeth water.
Con. Hang him stinking Lobster, he daires not look upon any of thy kinne: his haddocke eyes would start out of his head, if he should see but one haire of Rimbomboes head.
Rim. How long wilt thou be tying mee?
Con. The more knots I tie, the faster will my love be to you: but you'l be prating of this secret, when you come home among your mounting Nymphs .
Rim. If I doe, then geld mee: hast thou done?
Con. I have but three knots to tie: they are all true [lovers] knots.
Rim. When thou hast done, preethee come kisse me, Cosma , I see thou art a pure virgin, thou never didst this office before, [that] thou art no quicker at it. What Cosma ? what? no Cosma ! what a woodden wench? here's a true love knot with a witnes. O faithlesse Cosma ! O witlesse Rimbombo ! O Nymph [ s ]! O fishers! O shepheards! O Satyrs! O Cyclops !

Con. Ha, ha, ha: O love! O wit! O tree! O girdle!
O platter face! O oyster ey[e]!
Rim. Thou bitch, thou witch, thou spawne of a mermaid.
Con. Thou Ætna , thou Chaos, thou Hell: nay tugge and tugge, my virginitie is tough and strong enough: O for some Nymphs fishers or shepheards to baite this Orke . I'le out and call in some bandog[s]: so ho, so ho, ho, ho.
Rim. The knots are so many, the girdle so strong, and the tree stands so fast. O anger! O shame! here shee'll bring in all the country to laugh mee to death, hide yet thy face with some of these lower boughs.

Con. So ho, so ho: O dogged fortune! not one Nymph to be found, not one feate fisher! not one: but that feating fisher that is readie to wing his sea [s]oken net on the Cyclops blockhead.
Rim. Away thou monstrous woman, oh, oh.
Can. Away thou monstrous ma[n], ah ha hey.
Rim. How now! what's that? what, have I another witnes of my folly? what gobbet of mans flesh grows upon this tree?
Con. Ile have a graft of this mirtle tree, it beares fine love wormes, on the stocke, a maggot wou'd up in a Cobweb, on the bough a barnacle, which ere long will fall and turne to a goose: now Cupids gosling, now on your bare-head knee, goe begge at Cupids doore.
Can. Ah cursed Cupid , i'le no more of thy service, I had rather fight with nine Orkes, ha, hei, au.
Rim. Come downe thou fished bit; my mouth shall catch thee. Gentle Cosma , i'le forgive thee all, & love thee yet, if thou wilt helpe to reach my walking sticke; i'le make my young Orke-ketcher beleeve he shall bee his grandsires heire.
Con. Your staffe? marry and shalt, it's a pretty pole to bang those boughes withall, and when thou doest it, doe but gape, and that rotten plumme will fall into thy mouth.
Can. Nay, I kn[e]w of old I should be devoured.
Con. Thy staffe, Rimbombo , is not for a weak Nymph to lift.
Rim. Yet a little more to this hand: Oh oh, my shoulder's thunderstrook! O coward Jove , to strike me on the backe, but wast our fisher lubber? is he escap't our hands?
Con. Why Cancrone , rise, i'le helpe thee.
Can. Good Charon carry me over gently, my bones are sore, and your boate side so hard.
Con. Give me thy hand, i'le waft thee.
Can. I tell thee Charon , I have nothing to give thee for ferriage, i'le helpe to row, I have beene a poore fisher while I liv'd.
Rim. I would I were there too, but that I should sinke Charons boate with a tree at my backe.
Con. Why valorous Cancrone , view thy selfe and mee thy capt[ain]e Cosma , we are conquerours, behold our enemies in fetters fast bound.
Can. Am I alive indeede? me thought this legge hung out of Charons boate i'th' water, did I tie the Orke there; Come captain, let's goe triumphing to the temple.
Con. Nay, the Ork's dead and buried, this is the second fatall fo[e] the Cyclops .
Can. Is he safe? i'le make side-slops on him. I lay studying how to deale with him upon equall tearmes: come if thou darest, thou sea-bred brat of Polyphemes sire, you that would licke your lips at sweete fishers blood! sweete fishers blood! marke that Cosma : I hope you thinke so too.
Rim. Sweete fisher, I will turne thy netmaker if thou wilt undoe me.
Can. No, it shall nere be said that I was the undoing of any man by net-making, and besides, I have forsworne the muddie trade.
Con. Cancrone , wher's thy spirit? this is [he] that pocketted up thy grandsire in his wide intrailes.
Can. Me thought, when I was on the tree, his breath smelt of fish, my stomacke even foam'd at him. Now then, sir Bompelo , as that Orke mouth of thine did crumme thy porridge with my grandsires braines, and then gave him his deaths wound too, so will I first mince out thy scald-pate bones, and give thy flesh [to fishers] boy[s] for haddocks meate, & then, O then I will geld thee, that thou never shalt run rutting after the Nymphs. How lik'st thou this?
Rim. Shame and scorne make me silent.
Con. Nay, I will tell thee fitter vengeance, use him, as sage Ulysses did his father Polypheme .
Can. That same Foolishes had a pole-cat head, I meane to mitigate him: [it] was something, as it ware about branding a huge stone in a cave, in a goate skinne with Polypheme , when the fire-brand was asleepe.
Con. I, I, in the cave he branded out Polyphemes eye, when he was asleepe, and you must imitate him: here take his owne staffe, and make it an extinguisher for that glazing lampe.
Rim. This sport I like worst of all: helpe, gods of the woods.
Can. I'le blow the coale while you take your aime, but will your farginity hold him fast?
Con. I warrant you it has been tried, come be thou my rest, i'le tilt on thy shoulders.
Can. Raunt tara, raunt taunt: & I shall make you stumble, let me come hindermost.
Con. O your Whineyeard, the enemy hath seazd on't.
Can. 'Tis no matter, hee'l hardly make it fly out of the Eele-skinne, it hath seene no sunne this five quarters of a yeere I am sure.
Con. I hope the salt breath of the sea hath seald it up.
Can. O Cosma , 'tis out, let us out too.
Con. O Cancrone , loe thy Cosma , Cupid , and Conchilio. Cyclops , blame not this my supposed sexe,
No Nymph, but lad hath caught thee in this snare.
Rim. The greater shame, and fouler scorne to me.
Up to the hill, Rimbombo , flye this shore,
And never deale with fisher-Nymph-lad more.

CHORUS.

This his wives quicke fate lamenting ,
Orp[he]us sate his soule tormenting:
While the speedy wood came running,
And rivers stood to heare his cunning:
The hares ran with the dogs along,
Not from the dogs, but to his song:
But when all his verses turning,
Onely fram'd his poore hearts burning:
Of the higher powers complaining,
Downe he went to hell disdaining:
There his silver Lute-strings hitting,
And his potent verses fitting:
All the sweets that ere he tooke
From his sacred mothers brooke:
What his double sorrow gives him,
And love that doubly double grieves him:
There he spends to moove deafe hell,
Charming Devils with his spell:
And with sweetest asking leave
Does the Lord of ghosts deceave.
C[h]aron amaz'd his boate foreslowes,
While the boate, the sculler rowes,
And of it selfe to th' shoare doth floate,
Tripping on the dancing moate.
The threeheaded Porter preast to heare,
Prickt up his thrice double eare,
The Furies, plagues for Guilt up-heaping,
Now as guilty, fell a weeping:
Ixion, though his wheele stood still,
Still was wrapt with Musickes skill.
Tantale might have eaten now,
The fruite as still as was the bough,
But he foole no [bu]nger fearing,
Starv'd his tast to feede his hearing.
Thus since love hath wonne the field,
Heaven and Hell, to Earth must yeeld,
Blest soule that dyest in loves sweete sound,
That lost in love in love art found.
If but a true-loves joy thou once doe prove,
Thou wilt not love to live, unlesse thou live to love.